Hands On
by Cati-dono
Summary: Based on an art prompt (similar to Exit Wounds). The Leviathan have Castiel, and they want to make sure Dean doesn't forget it. Rated T for mild (by my standards) gore and a lot of cussing.
1. Don't Fret Precious, I'm Here

**Author's Note:** Hey, long time no fic! I figured I would kick my writing gears back into motion with some- you guessed it!- dark!fic. This was supposed to be a oneshot based off of a "prompt" on angeldicks' tumblr, post/34158478133/, (man this site makes giving out URLs difficult!) but it didn't stop flowing and I couldn't help but make it go on and on. So here's chapter one, expect at least one more!

This is very AU; here, Cas opens the gates of purgatory and immediately becomes LeviaCas- no Godstiel. He still kills Raphael, runs off Crowley, breaks Sam's wall, etc. But the Leviathan stay inside Cas instead of getting out into the water supply. And they are much more like Misha portrays them, highly unbalanced and deadly, but not particularly clever like Dick Roman (bless his slimy black soul). So yeah. my own brand of LeviaCas. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

It starts as an itch. Dean absentmindedly scratches his shoulder as he sorts through another stack of books in Bobby's angel-proofed study. It's been almost a week now, six and a half days to be exact. Six and a half days of endless searching for answers, six and a half days of regular checks to make sure Sam hasn't dropped back into another Hell-induced coma, six and a half days of looking nervously over their shoulders in case the monsters in Castiel's skin find a way in. It's been, Dean thinks dryly, Hell.

It's also been quiet since the Leviathan slithered away in Cas' skin, and Dean doesn't know what that means. The massacres that they had been expecting never came, although they have no idea if it's because the Leviathan don't have access to Cas' angel mojo or because they aren't interested in pointless slaughter (yet). In fact, apart from Sam's not-so-slow descent into insanity and Dean's cracked ribs from being tossed into that wall, it would be easy to believe that nothing has gone wrong, that the sigils and symbols painted around the house are there for decoration. But Dean knows that would be lying to himself.

Even Winchester stubbornness can only do so much against exhaustion though, and after another hour Dean finds the letters on the page beginning to swim before his eyes. Dean pushes himself to his feet, deciding that more beer is the solution, and that's when the itch deepens to a slow ache, like a bone deep sunburn.

"Son of a bitch," Dean mutters, rubbing at his arm. Sam looks up from his nest on the couch, frowning.

"Problem, Dean?" he asks carefully, narrowing his eyes in a focused squint that Dean knows only started after his wall broke. Briefly Dean wonders what his brother sees in the space between them that he needs to squint around, what horrors his imagination is dredging out of the cage to throw between Sam and reality. The pain in his shoulder intensifies, distracting him, and Dean swears again.

"It's my arm," he grits out, kneading the muscles of his shoulder even though it's making the pain worse. "Hurts like a bitch, feels like I burned it on something." Sam's frown morphs into his full-blown worry face, and he unfolds himself from the sofa to loom at Dean's side.

"Isn't that where-" he asks hesitantly, but stops himself.

"Spit it out Sammy, you spill your kiddy chem set on my clothes or something?"

Irritated, Dean tears the sleeve of his shirt up to examine the skin below at the same time that Sam quietly finishes "-where Cas grabbed you?"

Both hunters fall silent, staring wordlessly at Dean's upper arm. Bobby walks through the door, laden with groceries and a sawed-off shotgun, and pauses to look at them.

"The hell you boys starin' at?" The old hunter asks gruffly. Dean wordlessly shifts so that Bobby can see the handprint scar slowly developing on his flesh, like a Polaroid in skin and muscle. It's a scar that Dean hasn't worn in over a year. "What in god's name is that?" Bobby demands, leaving his forgotten food in the doorway and striding over to them. "Does it hurt?"

"Like a bitch," Dean repeats, a glimmer of hope swelling in his chest as the raised outlines of Cas' fingers become apparent once more. "Do you think..." he swallows, glances at his brother, then continues."Do you think it's Cas? It's gotta be. Maybe he's trying to tell us something, give us a sign that he's still in there somewhere. Maybe he's fighting back, or- godDAMMIT!" A spike of pain lances through him, agony so intense that Dean swears his heart stuttered for a few beats, and he reflexively curls in on himself, closing his eyes and clasping his hand over the scar. He's still seeing spots from the pain, and it takes him a moment to realize that the wound is sticky.

"Goddammit," he whispers again, panting. "that hurts. Am I bleeding?"

"Not- not exactly, Dean." Sam's voice is shaky like it was the first days after he put himself back together, and Dean looks up in alarm. His brother and Bobby are wearing almost identical expressions of horrified revulsion, and so even though he doesn't want to Dean tilts his head to the left. To the trickles of thick black ooze seeping between his fingers.

"Holy shit." Dean's vision tunnels, and only the fact that Dean Winchester does not simply faint keeps him from passing out right there. His chest is tight and it feels like there's not enough air as he stands paralyzed for a moment before elbowing Bobby out of the way in an uncoordinated stumble to the kitchen. Dean shoves his entire arm in the sink and turns on the water, not caring that it's almost scalding hot, focused only on getting the fluid off of him. He scrubs at his arm like he's trying to peel the skin right off, and globs of dark slime drop into the sink like gorged leeches.

Still the stuff bubbles forth, and Dean doesn't have any idea where it could possibly be coming from. The tissues of the mark are putrefying, turning black and dead, and Dean keeps up a steady mantra of "shit, dammit, shit, fuck, fuck!" as he tries to staunch the flow of black from Cas' mark. It takes several minutes, but eventually the streamers of sludge thin to dribbles, and then to drops, but they never stop completely. As Dean slams the tap off and turns away, a single trickle of black weeps from the palm of the scar like a mocking tear. Sam and Bobby are standing in the doorway behind Dean, wide-eyed. Bobby's mouth is working like he wants to say something but doesn't know what. Sam has his hands out in front of him in a calming, placating gesture because he knows Dean, can follow the swing of his brother's moods, and is waiting nervously for the anger that must follow on the heels of the fear.

Dean does not disappoint. Slowly his hands curl into fists, tightening until the knuckles crack and show white through the skin. Dean's jaw clenches until his face looks like some sort of pained mask and the treacherous drip of the black liquid winds its way over the tense lines of his muscles. When it hits the sensitive skin of his wrist Dean snaps, and before Sam can even finish his warning "Dean, no!" the elder Winchester is past him and out the front door, paying no mind to the protected threshold he crosses.

"What the hell is this?" Dean stands in the open yard and roars at the sky in a broken, deadly voice that Sam has never heard him use before. A voice that no one outside of the fire and chains has heard in over ten years. It's the way Dean screams when he is shattered beyond repair. "Is this some kind of sick game you son of a bitch? I'll kill you right now, come here and face me you bastard!"

Dean is still screaming when Sam grabs him, spins him around, and slaps him. The blow silences Dean, but Sam can see the furious, lost expression in his brother's face.

"Dean, listen to me, we've got to get inside, we can't fight those things, we aren't ready. Come on." He tries to tug his brother towards the relative safety of the open door, where Bobby stands casting nervous glances at the sky, but Dean doesn't move. He mumbles something, and Sam has to lean in to catch it.

"I can't let them do this Sammy. They can't do this to me, they can't do this to Cas. They're in me, like they're in him and I can't just ignore it. I can't Sammy they've got Cas. What did they do to Cas to make this happen Sammy, what could they have done?" Dean keeps muttering, repeating himself, but he doesn't seem to realize it. Sam looks over Dean's head to Bobby, and at a nod from the old hunter he delivers a short hard punch to Dean's jaw. Catching his unconscious brother before he can faceplant in the dirt, Sam cradles him in his arms and hurries back into the house, as a storm rumbles in the distance.

( )( )( )( )( )

When Dean wakes up he is in a depressingly familiar room. Although he knows what will happen, he tries to sit up anyway, wincing as the carefully padded handcuffs on his limbs keep him pinned. Overhead the fan whirls hypnotically behind it's devil's trap grating. Dean closes his eyes and the flickers of sunlight make little black and red lines dance behind his eyes. It's a nauseating reminder of his scar, so he opens them again. His head is not strapped down at least, and when he turns it he can see a fresh bandage wrapped around his bicep, hiding the cancerous print from view. When he looks the other way he can see Sam and Bobby, once more watching him from the doorway with concern in their eyes.

"Dean?" his brother asks hesitantly, and Dean knows he is both afraid for Dean and of him. A flash of his temporary insanity comes back to Dean and he groans, instinctively trying to cover his face with his hands before remembering the restraints.

"Well that was stupid of me," Dean admits, a little ashamed. His feelings have not changed, but now that reason has restored itself he sees no reason to drag Sam and Bobby down with him.

Sam visibly relaxes at Dean's demonstration of logic, but Bobby just snorts. "Gee, do ya think idjit?" he responds, voice heavy with sarcasm and worry. "If those things didn't know where we were before they sure as hell do now. And we still don't know how to do a damn thing to them." Dean drops his gaze, unable to meet the old man's eyes. "Idjit," he hears the hunter snort once more. "I'm gonna go check the damn angel-proofing." There is the sound of Bobby's boots clumping up the stairs, then silence. Dean knows Sam is still watching him.

"So," he starts, still not looking at his brother. "I assume I'm in the panic room to keep Cas- the things inside Cas" he hastily corrected himself, "away from me." Sam nods. "And the handcuffs are for...?"

"Keeping you from hurting yourself." Sam's serious expression does not change at Dean's disbelieving bark of laughter. "Dean, you have black goo leaking out of that scar. You completely lost your mind and ran into the yard screaming bloody murder. Now look me in the eye and tell me that if I let you go your first move wouldn't be to try and cut it off, or cauterize it, or somehow hurt yourself?" Dean kept his eyes fixed on the lazy twirl of the fan, but didn't respond. "That's what I thought."

"So what, you're just gonna leave me here?" Dean asks, even though he knows the answer. They are locking him up as much for their own safety as his, and Dean knows it. He's been marked by the Leviathan somehow, from afar, and they don't know what else the monsters might be able to do to him. Or make him do. It's a race to see if Dean will crack before Sam and Bobby can find a way to destroy the Leviathan. A game the hunters have already lost, but Sam doesn't need to know that.

"I'm sorry, Dean. I wish we didn't have to do this." The sincerity in Sam's voice does nothing to make Dean feel better. Dean doesn't respond, just turns his head and closes his eyes and waits for the sound of the heavy door swinging shut. He doesn't bother to open his eyes again when he hears it close, because what's the point? There's nothing to see. For the first time since Cas opened purgatory, Dean wishes he could pray.

_to be continued..._


	2. Go Back to Sleep

**Author's Note:** See, I told you it would be a fast update! And I also told you the fic was gonna be really long, right? Riiiight... Anyway, here, have some Levi's (as I affectionately call them. In Supernatural, the Levi's wear YOU!). you'll notice that they talk weird. I saw it on an RP blog and kind of fell in love with it. Sorry not sorry. Also they are a pain to write description for, since there are like, hundreds of them but only one. You'll see, so I'll just stop complaining now.

As always, thanks for reading! [insert shameless begging for reviews and also standard disclaimer] Love you guys! ;)

* * *

The handprint is itching again, and Dean rubs his shoulder against the cot as well as he can to try and scratch it, but all he succeeds in doing is unraveling the bandage and peeling it off, letting it crumple to the floor in a mess of black and white. Dean takes a moment to chide Sammy in his head- the man should know how to tie a knot better than that. Now that the mark is exposed, Dean finds that he can't look away. He watches the constant movement of the black liquid dripping from the wound and feels sick but he keeps staring. Again he wonders what the hell it means for him, for Cas. If this means the monsters are somehow in him too.

"YeS, dEaN." The hunter looks up at the sound of the voice, the one voice that sounds like hundreds, and sees Castiel standing a few feet away. What's left of Castiel at least. The trenchcoat is torn and covered in rivulets of blood and Leviathan ooze, and so is the man wearing it. Dean opens his mouth to scream, but the Leviathan flicker like an old TV image, and Dean stops himself.

"You're not here," he denies flatly, shaking his head. "I'm hallucinating."

"YeS aND yES anD NO DeAN." The creatures' head flops to the side as if something has snapped their spine, and they stare hungrily at Dean through blue eyes clouded over black. "wE aRe nOT HEre-" One hand waves at the floor, then reaches up to touch their gore-stained temple. "bUt We ArE hERe."

Dean wrestles down the shivering that threatens to overtake him at those words, wondering if he should call for help anyway. "What the hell does that mean? What are you doing to me? What have you done to Cas, leave him alone you bastards!" He jerks ineffectually at the chains on his wrists, wishing he could get up and strangle the apparition wearing his friend's face.

"sHhHh, dEaN." The Leviathan flicker again and reappear next to the cot, reaching out to rest their fingers against Dean's brow. the touch is cold and rubbery, like a drowned corpse, and Dean jerks his face away. "tHe BirDIe iS STilL fLaPPinG aRouNd inSidE uS. WE woUlD lET iT tALk, buT It sINgS suCh a SAd SonG. NoT fOR lOnG THouGh." The Leviathan giggle, a sound like claws on slate, and drop bonelessly into a crouch by Dean's side. He tells himself again that it's all in his head, but that doesn't stop the bile from rising in his throat as they trace their fingers over Castiel's mark.

"tHe BirDIe Is uSEd tO ThE LIgHt, buT wE WilL tEAcH iT to LoVe thE DaRK," they croon, almost to themselves, as they trace delicate patterns on Dean's skin in their thick ink. "aNd YOu BeLOng tO tHe BIrdiE. YoU ARe Its HumAN." The word rolls of their tongue with an air of curiosity. "sO WhEn thE biRDiE iS oURs, yOU wILl bE oUr HuMAn." There is a sense of irrevocability to the words, a feeling of something shifting deep inside Dean that makes him gag, choking on his own terror.

They see his distress and lean in towards Dean with a smile that literally splits their face in half, black blood oozing from the corners of the too-wide mouth. "wE'Ve nEVeR hAD a PeT hUmaN bEfoRE. Won'T tHAt Be fuN deAN?" Helpless, Dean can't do a thing as they swipe a trickle of slime from their cheek with a thumb and wipe it across Dean's face in mockery of their own grin.

"sInG fOR Us dEAn. LiKE thE bIRDie."

{}{}{}{}{}

Sam barely recognizes the sound coming from the basement as Dean. He charges down and glances through the peephole, but there's nothing there but Dean. Dean, who is thrashing wildly and screaming so loud that Bobby hears him out in the yard.

"What in god's name is goin' on in there?" Bobby demands, crashing down the steps behind Sam. Sam doesn't answer, tearing furiously at the locks until he can throw open the door and run to Dean's side. Dean's eyes are closed tightly, but the instant Sam touches him they spring open, darting wildly around the room.

"Dean!" Sam yells, shaking his brother until Dean's eyes finally focus on him. "Dean, it's alright, you're safe, it was just a dream." It takes Dean a moment to realize that the awful keening is coming from him, and another to consciously make it stop. His whole body is bathed in sweat, like he's been running a marathon. Sam puts a hand to his brother's forehead and Dean flinches away, but not before Sam registers the fever heat of the skin.

"M'fine, Sam," Dean mutters, but now he won't meet the other man's gaze at all, watching everything but the face in front of him.

"Like hell you are," Sam retorts. Glancing around to Bobby, Sam continues, "I was gone for less than ten minutes, but he's got a massive fever that came out of nowhere and-" Sam drops his voice to a whisper that Dean hears anyway- "his arm looks worse."

Now that Sam has mentioned it, Dean can feel the Leviathan slime drying on his skin and it makes him shudder. He looks over, to see if there really are little whorls and twists drawn onto his skin by stolen fingers, but Bobby is already there and wrapping fresh bandages around the mark. He can't hide the puddle of the stuff on the floor though, and Dean stares down at it until Sam gives his shoulders another firm shake.

"Dean. look at me. Don't look over there, come on, focus. Look in my eyes okay? Nowhere else." Normally Dean would get annoyed with Sam for using his "psychiatrist" voice, but he's too shaken up at the moment. He wrenches his gaze back to Sam's worried face. "What happened, Dean? can you remember what you were dreaming about?

_Can I remember?_ Dean wants to laugh but is afraid it will turn to tears partway through. "I wasn't dreaming." He wishes that his voice would stop trembling, that his body would stop trying to shake itself to pieces. Every time Dean thinks he has a handle on himself, the Leviathan's sneer flashes behind his eyes, and he feels himself slipping a little further into mindless hysteria instead. It takes an immense effort of will to keep his attention fixed on Sam, who is frowning now.

"Dean, come on man, don't pull this crap with me. Was it Cas?"

"NO!" Dean's sudden vehemence startles both men as he reflexively arches off the bed towards Sam. "it wasn't Cas, they were lying. It isn't Cas, it'll never be Cas." Dean starts hyperventilating, pupils dilated so huge that his irises are almost blacked out.

"Son, you have to tell us what's happening." Bobby keeps his voice soft and soothing, but Dean still twitches and twists towards him like a frightened animal. "We're tryin' to help, Dean, but we need to figure out what's goin' on first."

For a moment Dean isn't sure he can speak at all. His heart is fluttering against his ribs ~_lIkE a lITtlE bIRdiE~_ and his skin feels too hot and tight, except for the icy handprint. Still he forces words out, hoping they'll be coherent enough.

"It was the Leviathan. they were here-" Sam tenses and Dean shakes his head impatiently, words tumbling out of his mouth on a tide of rising panic. "Not here, here in my head. They're in my head and it wasn't a dream it was something to do with Cas. They're in my _head_ Sam, get them out, please, make them leave me alone, get them out of me!" Dean's burst of coherency ebbs, and he begins to writhe on the cot, tugging at the cuffs and trying to tear the bandage off his arm with his teeth, the metal bed frame, anything he can. When that fails he starts slamming his left shoulder into the side of the cot again and again, face frozen in a snarl, eyes wide and unseeing.

"Hold him Sam!" Bobby yells, racing from the room. Sam can do little but throw himself over his brother, pinning him with difficulty. Nothing Sam says is having any effect on Dean, who seems to be having some sort of combined seizure and mental break. He continues to struggle until Bobby returns with a hypodermic needle and jabs it into his leg. Dean's eyes flutter, muscles slowly and unwillingly relaxing as they succumb to the drug until he is once more lying inert on the bed. Sam leans back slowly, afraid that the shot is only temporary, that any moment Dean will return to his self-destructive madness.

"That was heavy-duty anesthetic, son," Bobby reassures him. "He'll be out for another five hours at least."

Sam nods and stands shakily, running his hands through his hair. For an instant the world around him slants, and he hears the roar of flames, sees bright flashes of white and yellow that threaten to pull him under, but he fights the hallucination off. Dean needs him, and Sam can't afford to check out now. No matter how many triggers Dean's behavior is setting off.

"What's happening to him, Bobby?" Sam whispers as the old man hands him a cloth and bucket to clean the floor with. Lying there on the cot, Dean looks dead except for his slow breathing and the small but growing stain on his bandages.

"I don't know son, but I intend to find out. We know it has to do with that angel of his and the scar, so I guess we just go back to searching." Bobby rests a hand on Sam's shoulder, giving it a brief squeeze before letting go "We'll figure this out Sam. We've handled worse."

As Sam finishes cleaning and follows Bobby out of the room, he isn't sure he agrees. If Sam glances back at his brother, he can see the way Dean's brow furrows slightly, a tic in his cheek beginning to jump regardless of the tranquilizer. But he doesn't look back, and the door to the panic room clamps shut behind them like a trap.

* * *

dun dun DUUUUN! Don't worry, Chapter 3 is in the works, and it is there that we shall truly discover WTF is up with Dean. Hope you still like it!


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